Strings
by Eleanor Pepperland
Summary: AU. They are all connected by strings. Some connections are so deep that they are called rope, others so distant that the string that binds them together is wearing away, stretched to snapping. Longer summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: Strings  
AUTHOR: Eleanor Pepperland  
RATING: M, for swearing and some themes [though if you readers want smut, I'll try.]  
PAIRING: Edmund/OC.  
SUMMARY: [AU.] The students at the Narnia School for the Gifted are all connected by strings. Some connections are so deep that they are called rope, others so distant that the string that binds them together is wearing away, stretched to snapping. Fifteen-year-old Edmund Pevensie doesn't know that he's already been woven into the web. Will he cut the strings that attach him to the school, or will he deepen those connections enough that he's wrapped up in rope? And what, in the name of Aslan, does **_**that**_** girl have to do with all of it?  
DISCLAIMER: **_**The Chronicles of Narnia**_**, its characters, themes, places, and concepts are all property of C.S. Lewis and Warner Bros. I think Mister Lewis would be mortified to know what I've been doing to his work.**

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**A PERSPECTIVE ON GROUPS AT THE NARNIA SCHOOL FOR THE GIFTED  
****(written for **_**Narnia's Nanny**_**, the website **_**for **_**the Narnians, **_**by **_**the Narnians)**

OK, so maybe C.S. Lewis was wrong on a lot of things. What can you expect? The old man was bored, probably, and thought his version of things would please the kiddies. In any event, well, Narnia isn't a place you'd expect great things to be. Officially, it's called the Narnia School for the Gifted. Unofficially, it's called the Narnia School for the Damned. No, I'm not joking. This is where English parents of good social standing send their unusual or delinquent offspring to be straightened out. Not like it's any use to them, seeing as all the students are just the way they were—only more contained, less moneyed, and just a tiny bit more reckless.

Essentially, there are five major clans you need to know about, if you're going to try and get into Narnia.

First we have the **Royals**; these are annoying bigots who think that because they can get you an iPod within two minutes of your asking that they own the place and deserve ridiculous titles, aside from special treatment from teachers and fellow students. OK, so I'm being too hard on them. The Royals aren't that bad, but they _can_ get a bit mean. The last "rulers" were Peter and Susan Pevensie; Peter was called High King, the Magnificent, upon pulling some rude prank on the Dryads (we'll get to them later) and not being caught. Susan, his sister, was called Queen, the Gentle, after the news had spread that she was positively saint like toward the first years. According to Royal-centric gossip, the two Pevensies were in Narnia for no terrible reason—apparently, their parents had wanted a school that would further hone Peter's skills at fencing (which he became famous for, later) and Susan's uncanny gift with a bow and arrow (what _she _became famous for). Their "reign" was called the Golden Age. Narnia's current "ruler" is Caspian X, an export from Spain (or so the story goes—nobody really knows where he's from) who's the fastest when it comes to delivery of your chosen goods.

You can spot a Royal a mile away if he or she's got something on his or her body that's violet. They fancy themselves kings and queens, and purple is the colour of the aristocracy. That, and their high-and-mighty vibe.

After those irksome prigs we have the **Centaurs**; this isn't a title given to just anyone. Centaurs are athletes, wise beyond their years and steadfast as the sky they're fond of watching. They're kind, indifferent, and genuinely gifted. Centaurs are tall, above all things, and they do not take too kindly to people who have jeopardised the safety of the general population or made jest of their morals. They also speak that way. Fame among Centaurs is rare—this is a clan which does not like to take credit for their many good works. To be able to meet one of them is equally hard to come by; greatly elusive and always stunningly under the radar, these are girls and boys who are either saints or on the way to canonisation. That isn't to say that Centaurs are perfect, though. Even if they're calm, clever beings, they don't like having to resort to brute force. They like being intellectual, and sometimes that leads them into thinking they're smarter than everyone else. After all, skill in many areas does not come from raw talent. They work hard. They play hard, too. That is, if you can find them, which, according to what you already know about these guys, will be quite a Herculean task.

Centaurs don't like standing out, so they wear **black**. They aren't exactly in the height of fashion like the Royals, but they say that their clothing of choice gets the job done, and that's all what really matters to them.

To combat the intense valour of those Centaurs, we have the **Dwarves**; no, they aren't called that because they're short. They're called that because they are cunning, deceitful, and malevolent creatures meant to cause havoc and destroy futures. That isn't hyperbole, either. Dwarves do not want to help anyone else unless they have guarantee of payment. In Narnian lore, the worst thing you could ever do is not pay a debt to a Dwarf. They say that if you don't, the Dwarf will take his or her bounty in any way possible. I would be lying to you if I said that these were honest, reputable people. The Dwarves themselves say that they cannot be trusted to stay true to a Royal or a Centaur or anyone who wasn't a Dwarf. They say that much like the figures their clan is named for, they can create great things for other clans, but they serve only their own. It is a shame, because they create the most beautiful things that only get better over time (hence, an asset to school projects) but no one has attempted asking a Dwarf to make a project for eons, seeing as paying debts is a hard thing to do at a school where currency is confiscated at the door along with one's mobile phone, music player, and dignity.

They also like standing out and telling the world what they are, so they are fond of wearing orange. Words from the wise—never get stuck in a room full of Dwarves. You're going to permanently ruin your eyes.

If there are the strong silent types and the weak loud types, there are the **Animals**; they are ruthless, unpredictable people who you cannot guarantee will be on your side if there is some big war. They aren't bad or anything, just loose cannons. Some are nice, but can get dangerous if you cross them. Some are cross all the time, some are misunderstood. Animals tend to be the catch-all clan for all the students who can't seem to fit the power-laden demographic of the Royals, the humble skill of the Centaurs, or the conniving of the Dwarves. Most Animals are either straight-edge or really fit, being anywhere from boisterous in their volume or terrifying in their silence. I have yet to meet an Animal who did not know how to run from the placid (but still quite commanding) dean of students, Aslan, after doing something _terribly _naughty. There have been tales of Animals running free of a suspension after unwittingly taking the blame for an endeavour that some Royals had set them to do (they didn't like the Royals very much after this story came out) but nonetheless, these are students that remain enrolled, remain untouched by disciplinary measures, and indubitably free of allegiance.

Royal violet, Centaur black, and Dwarf orange are never mistaken for Animal scarlet, the garment colour of choice when it comes to instilling both fear and trust in anyone who comes in contact with these enigmas.

In Narnia the highs of life are capable of becoming chemical—and when you need _that _kind of grass, look no further than the **Dryads**; they are first of only two all-female clans, both of which dealing in illegal substances. These are girls with hair no shorter than chest-length, eyes wide and sharp in spite of perpetual cannabis consumption, and wits beyond compare. They aren't bookish like the Centaurs, snobby like the Royals, deceiving like the Dwarves, or unpredictable like the Animals. They're beautiful, solid, and well-stocked with whatever source of your chemical high you wish. I say _solid _because some do not understand in full that while some other girls know that they are grass-fuelled machines capable of days without sleep, they forget their humanity and fade away from themselves. Perhaps seasoned usage has turned most of the Dryads into those whose bodies have adapted to the effects of the drug. Aside from being suppliers of various chemical highs, Dryads can sate the, well, let's say, _needs _of the average student. They are said to be both talented and choosey, seeing as they keep themselves in top condition to remain marketable. It is their second determining feature.

Dryads, according to myth, are tree-spirits. In a twisted homage to this, all Dryads have gold rings set with emeralds around their finger. That and long legs exposed to the harsh elements in ridiculously short skirts.

If there are chemical highs, there are alcoholic ones. That being said, look for the **Naiads**; liquid things are their specialty, be it lube or whiskey or even some well-deserved spring water. They are not like the Dryads, who wash their hands of every skirmish, and wish never to be involved in anything that could cause them danger. No, these girls drink their alcohol in a nonplussed manner right in front of the teachers, and do not shy away from their warnings. However daring they appear to be, Naiads are relatively more volatile and sensitive to comments. This is primarily the reason why they keep to themselves, if not only to deal with their allies the Dryads and the Centaurs. Not much can be said about them, really; they are almost as elusive as the Centaurs. That, and they are about as lovely as their Dryad "relatives," who only outdo them in their strange rooted way of going about their lives in Narnia.

A Naiad is marked only by the blue ribbon woven into her hair.

If there are these five, there is a group called the **General Narnians**; this clan is made of groups too small to be called a clan. Not much to say about that, really.

—**Tristesse Appleby, 18, Dryad.**

**-:-|-:-**

"You take care, Ed," Peter told him over the phone, seeing as he and his older sister were on the way to college. Edmund would have shrugged, but it wasn't as if his brother could see. "Yeah," he muttered, holding one earphone and aching to stuff it back into his ear. He wished to be spared of the gooey formalities their mother had imposed upon them. "I'll put Susan on real quick, but we'll be off soon," the eldest Pevensie went off the line, his curt tones replaced by Susan's mellifluous speech. "Hello, Edmund," she said, sounding genteel. "Hi, Su," he responded. No matter how much niggling annoyance he had for Peter, he couldn't say anything bad about his older sister. She was nice and too reasonable to nurture any negative feelings toward. "Don't get into any fights now, Ed," she began, "your dean of students isn't very lenient toward troublemakers, but if and when you get a disciplinary mention, bear in mind that his intentions are purely for your benefit. There's absolutely no use harbouring any grudges against him, or anyone else." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Alright, Su," he said instead. He could almost hear Susan smiling that I-hope-you're-making-good-on-that sort of smile. "Goodbye, Edmund," she passed the phone back to Peter, who only said hurriedly, "We've got to go, Ed. Have fun at school, don't break too many rules. Tell Lu we love her." Their mother took the phone back just as their father stopped before the imposing iron-wrought gates. They swung open. "What did they say?" asked his fifteen-year-old sister, Lucy. "They told me to tell you that they love you," he muttered, stuffing the earphone back into his ear, changing the song to an electronic track from a band he'd just found out about. "What else did they say?" she continued. "Just that," he turned up the volume. _I don't ever want to be here, like punching in a dream, breathing life into the nightmare. _"Edmund, Lucy," even over the music, he could still hear his father, infuriatingly enough. What'd he do to end up in the school where Peter and Susan were legends, anyway? Wasn't the reform school he was going to enough? Why did he have to go with Lucy?

"Behave, children," this was mostly directed at him, Edmund knew—Lucy was about as mischievous as a lamb. Provided she was a very athletic, physically able lamb, but a lamb nonetheless. While he was off smoking weed with his mates, she was at cricket practice. In the time that he spent shagging some bird with red hair, Lucy had already cleaned her room to the level of sublime neatness he thought only hotels could attain. Mister Pevensie stopped the car in front of a red brick-made building at the very end of the school's property, with immaculately white steps up to the door. Edmund looked around, taking in the fields of grass between the five buildings his eye could see. The largest by far was the one their father had halted before; it appeared to be about six floors high (he groaned inwardly, knowing he would have to go down several flights of stairs just to get to class) "Isn't it lovely, Edmund?" Lucy sighed, holding her suitcase of personal items in one hand while the other held on to the handle of her trolley luggage. "Yeah," he responded nonchalantly, starting to heft his trunk up the white steps. It may have been large and able to hold his clothes, shoes, school paraphernalia, and various items that did not fall into the other categories, but it wasn't the lightest thing to carry.

Their parents said their goodbyes and drove away. Edmund shot an accusing glance at his trunk. He was certainly strong enough to take it all the way to the sixth floor, he knew, but a blond-haired guy who was built like a rugby player appeared to carry it the rest of the way up. He frowned while Lucy smirked at him, easily pulling her trolley luggage up with no assistance whatsoever. _What, do I look weak to you, strange person? _ "Sorry to stop you there," said the blond, smoothing his hair back and extending a hand, "But you're new, and I knew your brother. I'm Patrick Gregory, nice to meet you." His eyes went from Patrick's hand to his face, which, if he was being honest, wasn't ugly to look at. "I would tell you to help my sister find her room, but I don't know you, and I don't trust you just because you say you know my brother. The name's Edmund Pevensie, and I suggest you sod off," he replied, taking the handle of his trunk back. He could really use a cigarette. "Peter warned me you'd be like this," Patrick chuckled, "I'll leave you alone, but if you need anything, just ask for me."

Lucy hid a smile behind a hand as Patrick went back into the building. "Come on, Lu," he sighed. A guard stopped him at the door. "Surrender any electronic devices aside from the laptop computer," said the man. "How am I supposed to call our parents? They'll want to know how my sister is doing, and I can't wait for my turn at the communal phone if she's got into an emergency," he lied, knowing that he sounded irritated at that fact. He was an adept liar in Winchester, and that hadn't changed when he had arrived. "Communal phones are in the cafeteria. iPod and mobile phone, please," the guard extended a dinner plate-sized hand. Lucy obediently deposited her mobile into the hand and told him in a low voice, "I'm going to my room, Ed. See you around." He huffed and grudgingly put his beloved music player and mobile into the massive palm.

He was much relieved to find that there was a dumbwaiter for the luggage, seeing as there was no way that he was going to bring his trunk up five flights of stairs, all the way to the fortieth room, on the sixth floor. The transport of his person was manual, but he didn't mind that. He made his way up, continuing the song that was playing on his iPod in his mind. He rather liked that song. The steps were set very close to each other, as if one unsupervised step could spell one's imminent roll down the staircase. He watched his feet come up those close-together steps, like they were moving by themselves. He went over to the dumbwaiter by the stairs, from which he took out his trunk and found his room at the very end of the hall, near the fire exit. Edmund was glad to know that he wouldn't need to share his room—he'd shared with Peter for most of his life, and it was interesting to know that he'd finally be able to decorate his room as he pleased. He didn't have the greatest design aesthetic, though (he was _sixteen_, for god's sake; sixteen-year-olds don't spend time for that).

The room was almost a box; the small bed was pushed up against the wall, one white-paned window serving as a headboard, its similarly white-paned sibling to right of the bed (that is, directly across from where Edmund was currently standing). His chest of drawers was pushed into the remaining space at the foot of the bed, making him wonder for a moment how he was going to get ready every morning if it was there. A yellowed pillow was placed sombrely on the bed. To the left of the bed, nearer to him than he thought it would be, was a humble oak writing desk, with a chair pulled up next to it. The bathroom was an entirely different story. It was so small that the sink was on the toilet, like in prison cells, and the shower area couldn't even allow a window; it had a strange aluminium vent above it. A full-length mirror hung at the back of the door.

Edmund got to work. He folded his clothes as best he could and placed them inside the drawers, which wasn't too hard. There was a knock on the door a few minutes later. Whoever it was had interrupted him while he was putting up a poster of the Ramones on the wall above his tiny writing desk, wiping his fingers on his jeans to rid them of dust.

A boy was behind the door—a very handsome boy, Edmund corrected himself, as soon as he saw the almond-shaped brown eyes, finely chiselled nostrils, well-curved mouth, his features set in a tanned complexion, dark hair falling on either side of his face in waves—and he leaned on the door frame when he said matter-of-factly in some sort of foreign accent,

"Well hello there, Edmund. I'm Caspian."

—**TBC****—**


	2. Chapter 2

**So yeah, I made it to the second chapter. **

**Just so you know, this story is being told in limited third-person PoV, meaning it's in third-person PoV, but the thoughts are Edmund's unless specified. Got it? (:**

**You know I don't own anything.**

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"No use saying who I am, I suppose, Caspian. Were you a friend of my brother's as well?" he said contemptuously, looping a thumb through one of his belt loops. Caspian chuckled, "Ah, no, I was in your sister's year, before she transferred," the foreign-looking boy replied in that same accent. Susan had gone to Narnia for a year and three months, and then their parents transferred her to an all-girl college in Manchester. "Is there some specific reason that you've gone through the trouble of seeking me out?" he quirked a brow. "I was just going to fire up the game console and wanted to see if you felt like playing some Guitar Hero," Caspian replied, smiling disarmingly. He rather did like Guitar Hero, even if Peter said there was no substitute for actually learning to play the guitar and Lucy told him that it was a game too loud to be played in the sitting room.

_There's nothing wrong with accepting an invitation. _"Yeah, sure, I'll play. Where are we playing?" he asked. "My room, it's a few doors down," Caspian responded, "oh yeah, for future reference, only boys are housed in the even-numbered floors, girls take the first, third, and fifth ones." Edmund nodded, though he failed to see how he'd need that information in the future. He followed the taller, older boy out of his room and into the hall, where a couple high-fives and acknowledging nods met the latter. They halted before a room not too far from the staircases. "Make yourself at home," Caspian told him, gesturing to the futon loveseat on his left. If his room was tiny and unremarkable, Caspian's was the boy-at-boarding-school's dream: on the wall where he had a Ramones poster taped up over his writing desk, Caspian had a flat-screen TV mounted above a sturdy-looking shelf that made the game consoles and apparatus appear as if they were floating. A laptop computer sat on Caspian's desk—even that seemed bigger and more enticing to use. If he had a yellowed lump of a pillow to rest his head upon at night, Caspian practically had a cloud cradling his head. Sure, Caspian only had one window, but there was no missing _that _when faced with the various and sundry gaming apparatus.

Caspian plugged everything in and even let him choose the song. For some reason he picked The Kinks. "Ah, that's a nice choice. They don't change the beat and the style much, this much I know from the two songs I've heard. Are you a fan?" asked the older boy, strumming the controller. "A bit, yeah. The Kinks, Queen, The Ramones, occasionally Bowie—but I like bands from this day and age too, like, er, The Fratellis, Arctic Monkeys, Neutral Milk Hotel, Phoenix," he trailed off, pressing the red button as he strummed. "Phoenix? I listen to them," Caspian said, doing one of those riff things. "Yeah?" he managed to say, a riff coming up in his arena.

"Yeah, ever hear _Lasso_? That's a really good song," Caspian finished up the song and looked through the choices, picking the next one to which they'd play. "So is _1901_," he retorted, beginning to strum. "Yeah, but c'mon, _everyone _knows _1901. _I dunno, sometimes when everyone knows a song it takes away the magic that made you like it in the first place. You know what's a real good Phoenix song? _If I Ever Feel Better_," replied the tanned upperclassman. "Mm, yeah, _If I Ever Feel Better _is great. You know what you should listen to? _Taken for a Fool_, by the Strokes," he responded. Caspian actually paused the game and looked at him, "Are you kidding me? I love the Strokes!" _I'm playing Guitar Hero with a Strokes fan who knows my sister and presumably my brother. OK, so I guess it isn't too bad. _"What other bands are you into, then?" Caspian stroked his chin in thought, "Arctic Monkeys, The Limousines, Black Lips, The Naked and Famous, Mumm-Ra, The Temper Trap—you should talk to my girlfriend, she has the best taste in music. She introduced me to all of those."

_She must be some girl, then. _"Then from what I know she must be pretty cool." Caspian smiled at this comment, "Yeah, she's a cool girl. I'd take you to meet her, but she's a bit busy at the moment. I'll take you to see her tomorrow, yeah?" _if you're making a commitment to see me, does that mean I'm not just the new kid anymore? _"Yeah, sure, that'd be cool," he responded. Caspian nodded, as he sometimes did when he ran out of things to say, and played the game. They were done with about six songs when Caspian asked him over the din of the sound effects from the main menu, "Any trouble with your room?" he shook his head, "The pillow's small and yellow, but I think I can make do." The elder brunet didn't seem to believe that and told him in a rather businesslike sort of fashion, "I'll send over a new pillow and an iPod, you look like you could use one."

Edmund nodded, unable to think of anything worthwhile he could say that Caspian hadn't already somehow thought of.

**-:-|-:-**

Caspian had promised him at the end of their match (with a binding oral guarantee and a handshake, no less) that he would walk with him to his first class, a multi-year session held in the lecture hall. By regular standards it could be compared to an English literature class, but he couldn't make any judgments, considering how Narnia wasn't exactly a typical boarding school. Edmund didn't believe him completely, though—his companion was a student of the final year, and he knew, much like at any school, there was some unspoken pact between the leaving students to occasionally mess around with the underclassmen.

He leaned on a pillar by the door to the hall, books and binders tucked under one arm, hands deep in his trouser pockets. Thankfully, Narnia didn't employ a uniform, but ever since Peter had showed him that article on the website, he suddenly had the urge to wear his violet socks more often. A girl came up to him, a not-too-shabby looking girl; her hair was red, falling to her chin in straight coppery strands. Her eyes were green, her nose a button, her cheeks charmingly puffy, and her lips a pink bow. Features set in an olive complexion gave way to a thin-boned, curvy build. He hazarded that she was in the year below him, based on her vibe.

"Oh, are you new to the class?" she asked him in a sweet, kindly voice. "Er, yeah," he replied, not dishonestly. She'd asked him if he was new to the _class_, after all, not to the school. He wasn't going to go with that newbie approach. "It's not a bad class, really, it may be a bit different from the usual, but as long as you strive for eighty, you'll be fine," she told him in that same tone. "Thanks, what did you say your name was?" he wasn't just going to take unsolicited advice from redheaded girls without at least asking for their name—it was one of the last signs of human decency. She smiled, and it almost made him smile—hers was crooked, but it only added to the charm of her pretty face. "Strawberry," she was smiling when she said this, "Strawberry Fields." _Is that some sort of joke? If it is, I don't find it funny. _So he cleared his throat and extended a hand, "That's an unusual name, mine's Edmund, Edmund Pevensie." Strawberry shook his outstretched hand and asked cordially, "Are you waiting for someone, Edmund?"

"I was supposed to wait for Caspian, but I guess he's running late," he looked around one more time for the boy. "Caspian? You're a friend of Caspian's?" asked Strawberry. "Not exactly, he came to my room and asked to play video games with him, we did, and then he said we'd take the seats he likes in the lecture hall," he explained. "I see," Strawberry said neutrally. Edmund looked over her head to see if Caspian was there, but his eyes were held captive by a girl who was running down the marbled hallway, sopping wet. From where he was, he could see that her hair was caramel-coloured, falling to her waist, but currently not doing so properly because of her current predicament. She skidded to a halt by the pillar where he leaned and asked him, "Can you please pretend to be my friend for five seconds? I promise I won't take very long."

Edmund wouldn't disagree anyway, because the girl was far prettier than anyone he'd seen at school so far, so pretty that it made him forget all about the perfectly cute Strawberry Fields standing in very close proximity to him. Her (that is, the girl with caramel-coloured hair) eyes were wide as the sky, as grey as a rainy day. He could see the curve from her proud forehead, down her ski-slope nose, to the rosy lips—her features were set in a fair complexion, a flush in her bas relief cheeks from running. She was hot, too, with her T-shirt, wet from something, clinging to her adequate chest. She was about his height, all curves and splendid bits. A squat boy found her, huffing as he pointed an accusing finger at her, "_You_! This is your fault!" she merely shrugged, as if she hadn't been running, like she wasn't drenched head to toe, "I honestly don't know what you're on about, Tim. I was going to class early so I could speak with my friend here, but you somehow turned it into a chase."

The boy called Tim threw his hands up in the air as if in surrender, and stalked off. Once he was out of earshot, Strawberry let out a very becoming and appropriate giggle. She put up a hand to stifle it, and it gave him the opportunity to notice that small green stones sparkled on her right ring finger. _She's a Dryad. _He'd remembered that much from the web page. The wet girl next to him smiled. Hers was straight, perfectly symmetrical. "Thanks for the save. Tim Birch blames me for everything, even when it has nothing to do with me, like his latest problem, for example; his twin sister May won't speak with him, and he thinks I've told her something that drove her to do so, even if I haven't done anything of the sort. That boy either seriously fancies me or is carrying some sort of personal vendetta against me. Seems you've met Strawberry; hello, I'm Fiera, Fiera Holly. You're a good sport."

Edmund found himself grinning back, "Thanks, I'm Edmund Pevensie." Fiera let out a breath, "Ah, well, I sure won't be accepted into class like this,"—she gestured to her wet form—"So I'm going to change. It was nice meeting you, Edmund, `till we meet again. See you later, Strawberry." The very lovely, very wet Fiera Holly left, a million hungry eyes following her, when Edmund extricated his pair and transferred his gaze to Strawberry, "You're friends with her?" his new accomplice shrugged, "She's a Dryad, I'm a Dryad. We generally hang out all together. Not exactly, as you would say." He nodded, "She seems nice." Strawberry cackled in a manner that was unbecoming of her name, "Yeah, you're the type to think that. That's very typical of you." He found this very confusing, "What d'you mean by that, Strawberry?" she shook her head, put a finger to her lips, and led him into the daunting lecture hall; class had begun.

**-:-|-:-**

After lunch with several important Royals (namely Caspian, a plump boy with a shock of pale blond hair they called Doctor Cornelius, Caspian's distant cousin Smith, and three others whose names escaped him) concerning his status as Royal-by-default and what title would he enjoy (he didn't want one, honestly, and a Duke of something would've been fine, but Caspian insisted he take the title King because of his brother and sister's legacy, even if Edmund knew Peter probably called to personally threaten Caspian with his return and usurpation of his throne if he didn't make Edmund a King), he discovered he had a free period—something to take advantage of, Caspian had said, to meet people and wreak havoc.

"Where are we going?" he asked Caspian while they walked across the field after much bickering over what they'd do with the free time they both happened to have. "We, Edmund, are going to the Mechanical Engineering labs, otherwise known as the Forges, to buy some high-grade grass from a Dryad. You, my friend, will have the pleasure of finally meeting the very cool girl I call my girlfriend, while I shall purchase the grass and speak with her." Edmund asked, "Why am I meeting your girlfriend again?" he wondered, secretly, if Caspian was the sort of boyfriend that had his hand on his girlfriend's bum all the time when he spoke with other people. Peter was like that when he was drunk—you'd think he'd glued his hand back there, the way he was. It made every other person in the room (the ones that noticed, that is) feel quite uncomfortable, and as the younger male Pevensie, he was supposed to be completely unlike his older brother when inebriated.

"She's got great musical taste, and aside from that, she's a great girl. I'm not saying that because I'm her boyfriend, either; I'm saying it because I do believe in what I have said," Caspian explained, "It's not every day you find a girl who's clever, has good taste, and is not hesitant to practice some outright promiscuity." _She's probably fit, too. _The door to the Forges was thrown wide open, so he could see the black-clad Centaurs doing their work at separate stations, not even acknowledging each others' presence unless they were missing a tool or a piece needed for their intricate little project. Caspian walked aimlessly past, his sauntering gait causing a few female workers to briefly look up, sigh, and return to what they were working on. Edmund groaned inwardly. He knew none of that was for him.

Caspian stopped sauntering. This irritated Edmund, since he was only following Caspian's lead and bumped into him because of the sudden halt. He followed Caspian's line of vision—and realised why they had stopped. It was the girl who had called him a good sport, Fiera. She certainly looked better dry, her long caramel-coloured hair pulled away from her face by a braid and twisted further into a bun at the base of her neck. She leant over an engine, up to her elbows in stripes of grease, clad minimally in a football jersey, denim cut-off shorts, and combat boots. "Hey, Fi," Caspian called him back to reality with the statement for his girlfriend. He only remembered then why they'd left the comfort of Caspian's electronic contraband heaven in the first place.

"I've got someone for you to meet, love," Caspian passed her a rag to wipe her hands and arms on. "This better be good, Caspian del Marino," she spoke as she wiped the grease off, and he heard Caspian's surname for the first time, "because the last person you brought me to meet was that little prig you called your ex-girlfriend, and I have you know, she wasn't very nice to me." Her jersey said _Narnia _across the chest, the scarlet material an excellent backdrop for the yellow-gold printing. "Oh, you should've said who it was," Fiera remarked once she finished cleaning off and saw him, "we've met before, haven't we, Edmund? It's nice to see you've made friends." Her boyfriend began to laugh, an easy, attainable sort of laugh that fell short of his otherwise otherworldly appearance. "You sound like his mother, Fiera. I didn't know that you had my jersey, you should've said. How did you meet Edmund?" Caspian composed himself long enough to ask. "I'll tell you the whole story later, but basically he saved me from another boring session of the blame game hosted by Tim Birch, your favourite Dwarf. I really don't like that guy, Cas," Fiera trailed off.

"I've raised that concern to Jared Blake at Conference, but he just keeps saying don't mind it. Those Dwarves can't be trusted at all," Caspian concluded, brow creased. "Yeah, well, d'you think we could move this conversation to someplace less filthy? I just changed the spark plug and fixed the gears on Astrid Andersen's coupe, give me a break," Fiera said wearily. "Oh, did you fix that too?" he chose to interject with that. Caspian chuckled. Fiera half-smiled and replied, "Unfortunately not, why don't you take it out for a spin and see what's wrong with them?"

Edmund smirked. There was a glint in her eyes, too. He was taking something out for a spin, alright, but it wasn't Astrid Andersen's coupe.

—**TBC****—**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yay, I made it to the third chapter. Sorry I haven't updated in ages, but here it is.**

**Same disclaimers apply.**

* * *

Edmund sat up, frowning. The moonlight streamed softly in from the windows beside and behind his head, creating an Edmund-shaped shadow onto the rumpled sheets. It was only his second night in Narnia, and yet. There was already a group to which he belonged and a girl he liked. He hauled himself out of bed, the sleep long gone from his eyes. Yes, he decided, he would do something other than sleep. _But what_? He glanced at his laptop, and then remembered all the interesting sites were blocked. With a huff, he left his dorm room, in pursuit of something to remove the nightmare from behind his eyelids and lull him back to sleep.

He passed Caspian's room, and upon hearing laughter, knocked on the door. "Who is it?" asked Caspian's smooth tenor. "It's only Edmund," he replied sombrely. The door swung open, Caspian standing behind it. "What's got you up?" said the elder brunet by greeting. "Nightmare," he mumbled, peering in. Fiera sat on the futon couch, remote control in her hand, the television casting her face in an eerie glow. "Come in, then," she said upon spotting him, "we have television." Caspian granted him entry. He knew he looked conventional enough to watch television with them, in his threadbare T-shirt and old jeans with holes at the knees; provided, he looked like a ragamuffin, but a very _conventional _ragamuffin. Sitting to the left of Fiera, at the end of the very small couch, he asked, "What're we watching?"

"_Friends_, that old American show," Fiera replied. "She loves it," Caspian added. "It's hard not to, can you blame me?" she said matter-of-factly. "Can't we watch _Doctor Who _or _Sherlock _or even _Skins_?" Caspian listed his suggestions off his fingers. "I'm not watching _Skins _with you; you're going to try something. We are going to watch _Friends_, because they're a laugh, and I could use a laugh. I just want to watch mindlessly amusing American comedy," Fiera concluded. It was amusing, to watch them bicker about something as trivial and normal as what show they'd watch. "Why don't we ask Edmund what he wants to watch?" Caspian suggested. "OK, so what _do _you want to watch, Edmund?" Fiera turned to him. "_Merlin_," he said, mentioning the program he'd watch with Lucy if she was too sugar-high to fall asleep. That was when they bonded the most.

Fiera liked this idea: "Mm, yes, that would be wonderful." He expected Caspian to strongly disagree, but he only flipped channels to the one that had _Merlin _on. Caspian slung an arm over Fiera's shoulders and she leaned into the crook of his arm. Edmund felt like an outsider, watching telly with them in silence. A while later Caspian announced he was sleepy. "You're welcome to keep watching if you want," he told them both. "No, we'd be disturbing you. Good night," Fiera stood on tiptoe and kissed Caspian on the cheek, and dragged him out the door. "Are you hungry?" she asked. Edmund nodded enthusiastically—he was starving.

"I've got food in my room, come on," she dragged him down a flight of stairs and took a sharp right. Fiera's room was directly below his, he realised suddenly. It was probably the same size, but it seemed smaller, seeing as it seemed to overflow with things. Books and periodicals stacked higgledy-piggledy were in the corner, and she had entire sections of newspapers taped up on walls all around the room along with ads and pages from fashion magazines. Like semi-dangerous soldiers, shoes of varying colour, style, and heel height were lined up along the bottom of the open clothes rack. A dream catcher hung over her headboard. Like she'd promised, a mini-fridge was tucked under her writing desk, which was littered with writing implements and delicate stationery. She knelt to open the fridge, and emerged holding a small box of milk. "I don't drink milk very often, but this is fresh," she unwrapped the accompanying straw and punched it into the carton. He took it and sipped. Peter thought him strange for disliking the warm version of the stuff, but he preferred the chill over the fuzzy warmth. When he thought about it, there was a semblance of something odd about it, but there was no fixing him. He loved cold milk. It was like drinking semi-melted ice cream without the heavy, sluggish feeling.

She looked under her bed and arose holding a translucent plastic container. The lid came off and she offered him a biscuit, which he ate. "A Centaur who is part of Conference made that for me and gave it to me today," she explained. "Food is pretty much outlawed in the dorms if you're not going to share it with absolutely everyone, but I don't like some people in the building, and I don't want them partaking in my good fortune." He nodded in response, because he couldn't say anything while his mouth was full (and it was one damn large biscuit). "What's Conference?" he asked when he finally swallowed the mouthful of pastry. "If you've ever heard of the UN General Assembly, it's basically like that. Except there are three representatives from each clan, and the ruling Royal presides over the entire affair. It's a bimonthly meeting held in the lecture hall to update one another on information, to strengthen inter-clan ties, and to resolve any problems through diplomacy before it comes to force. After each Conference meeting, one of the clans will inform everyone of the party they're hosting to blow off any steam that had been pent up from the meeting. It's all very political until the big orgy is hosted," Fiera said, gesturing for him to sit down on the bed. He sat on the edge cautiously.

"When's the next one?" he asked, finishing off the carton of milk. "The first one for this year will be on Friday at seven. It's going to be fun because my clan will be hosting the big party after, and I'm controlling the playlist," she told him proudly. "What bands do you listen to?" he threw the carton of milk in the wastebasket, the rubbish falling perfectly into the bin. "A lot of them—Phoenix has to be my favourite, though. Have you heard of them?" he nodded at this, "Yeah, I like them too. What's your favourite song by them?" she took a small section of hair and began to fiddle with it, "Hm, I'd have to say I never get tired of listening to _Rome_. What about you?" Edmund smiled, "I never get tired of listening to _Rome_, too." She reciprocated his gesture and put away the bin, finding a table napkin and passing it to him. He wiped the corners of his mouth on it.

The component in milk began to take effect. Just when Edmund had registered that he was getting sleepy, he fell sideward onto the bed, with that sensation of being sleepy but on the fringes of awakening hanging over his eyes. He heard her chuckle, the tips of her dry fingers brushing away the crumbs that he had missed. He could feel her move to the edge of the bed, slowly sliding into the little free space, skirting past his form entirely, like she didn't want to disturb him. He could feel the pleasant weight of her body on the other side of the mattress. It was that pleasant feeling that made him fall deeper into the preconceived slumber.

**-:-|-:-**

He found Caspian knocking intently on his door that Friday night at six-thirty. "As the only Pevensie old enough to be part of Conference, I'm instating you as the third representative for the clan of the Royals," said the elder brunet by greeting. "Why do you need a Pevensie to represent?" he asked. "The Royal Tribunal has never been better without a Pevensie on board. It's very much a time-tested tradition," replied Caspian, "Besides, you seem knowing enough to make a few decisions." Normally he would've raised an eyebrow, but it seemed the inappropriate action, so he just nodded. "But I can't guarantee they're very good decisions."

Caspian shrugged, "Tonight's your first Conference meeting. You're not expected to make any worthwhile decisions until your fifth or sixth appearance. Come along, now, it's in thirty minutes, and there happens to be a twenty- to thirty-minute travel time to where it's being held." Edmund pulled on trainers and followed the elder brunet down several flights of stairs. "So, what's going to happen tonight?" he asked Caspian. "If you know how the parliament proceeds, that's how Conference goes. Now, shh, we're going in," with a tanned finger to his lips, Caspian pushed open the large double doors of the main lecture hall with little to no effort.

The attention drawn to them was unwelcome, well, at least, on Edmund's part. He knew Caspian lived for eyes following his every move. Making his way with a saunter to the front of the hall, that was exactly what happened, with Edmund on his heels, hands deep in his pockets. "Hey, King Caspian," said an orange-clad Dwarf with a sneer, "who's the squire?" the elder brunet stopped mid-step, "He's a Pevensie, what's it to you?" the sneer fell clean off the Dwarf's face. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Caspian stood at the lectern and motioned for him to stand closer before speaking. "I hereby declare this Conference meeting open."

A girl in a black T-shirt (_a Centaur_, he noted) with straight black hair in sharp layers and colossal blue eyes stood up, looking expectantly at Caspian. "Proceed," said the one who'd called the meeting to order. "I, Simonetta Darby, Centaur," began the girl in a clear, firm voice, "Would like to report to His Majesty that the Centaurs do not bear any ill will toward the other clans, and hence there have been no recorded local disputes or inter-clan ones. There has been an increase in members, and they, along with the rest, do nothing but improve. That is all." Caspian nodded, "Well done as usual, Monette. Centaurs have set the standard, Dwarves!"

The Dwarf from earlier announced without rising from his seat in the middle row, "I, Jared Blake, Dwarf, wish to inform His Majesty that the situation concerning the Birch boy has been taken care of, and there is one recorded dispute solved by brute force. There were no fatalities." From his spot, he could sense Caspian's slight change in demeanour as he said, "Honesty has been noted, Jared, thank you. Animals, what say you?" a menacing-looking boy in a scarlet leather jacket reported curtly, "I, William Baer, Animal, informs His Majesty that the one dispute recorded in Animal records was between Sonja Wolfe and her long-time boyfriend, Tim Birch, a Dwarf. Wolfe was displeased by how Birch had treated her, and I authorised force if deemed necessary, as is stated in the Constitution. Birch was not permanently harmed. There was no subsequent incident."

Caspian cleared his throat, "Good to know, Baer, and that report is quite valuable. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe the Naiads have to contribute something to this conversation?" a blonde with a blue ribbon braided into the headband keeping her hair away from her pretty face stood at the mention of her clan. "I, Guinevere Lake, Naiad, wish to tell His Majesty that Lillian Dillon, pseudo-Naiad, declares a dispute against Fiera Holly of the Dryads." The normally genteel Caspian reacted rather violently to this: "No disputes shall be declared against Fiera Holly, tell Lilliandil to stop moping and move on. I formally dismiss the invitation to dispute."

Guinevere shrugged. "Dryads, your say in this matter is required," Caspian recovered quickly, regaining his aura of cool yet somehow still approachable indifference. "I, Fiera Holly, Dryad, wish to inform His Majesty that his royal fly is coming unzipped, that no mentions of dispute have been heard, whether domestic or inter-clan, and there has been an increase in profits. Other than that, the Dryads, as the official temperature arbiters with respect to assemblies such as this one, declare this start of term Conference tepid." Fiera spoke so confidently, like every word she had let pass her lips was completely important despite someone's quiet laughter.

"The royal fly is zipped, Fiera, but thank you for that pertinent reminder," Caspian responded with a smirk before clearing his throat to say more officially, "I, Caspian, wish to inform the Conference that another King has been inducted into the organisation, his name being Edmund Pevensie, or from now on to be known as King Edmund, and he stands before you now with as much desire to serve the greater good of Narnia as I stand here speaking of him. He shall be treated with as much respect as his elder brother, High King Peter. King Edmund's further titles shall be decided among the Royal sub-Conference. Seeing as no concerns were raised, I declare the Conference adjourned. Please await further instructions from the hosts of this week's gathering, the Dryads, with respect to the venue. I bid you farewell." Caspian finished his monologue with a stiff nod.

Just before the Conference dispersed, Fiera ran up to Caspian, who then allowed her to sit on his shoulders. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, the Conference turning in collective response. "If you haven't got any plans tonight at ten, come to the clearing in the forest to the back of the dormitory building. You'll know it's happening if you can hear some bhangra Beatles playing. There will be an open lawn, if you know what I mean, and if the Naiads aren't too troubled, free flowing water. See you then, Squares!" her announcement had started up the buzz of murmured conversations again, meaning most of them would attend.

She got off Caspian's shoulders and told him, "If you don't go, Edmund Pevensie, I will never talk to you ever again." This surprised him and drove him to blurt out, "Of course I'll go." Caspian smirked, "I told you so, Fi."

—**TBC****—**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi. Sorry I took so long to update, but life got in the way, and you know how life gets. In any case, I'm back with a chapter that I hope is long enough to compensate for the long absence of updates!**

**The same disclaimers apply to this.**

* * *

He was excited, to say the least. A party was enough cause for excitement. He set out to find the gathering at precisely 9:45, waiting for sitar music to blast out of the trees. In his eggplant-coloured T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots, he was nondescript and practically hidden by the night. At last, he heard the first part of something Indian-sounding. He followed the sound, and it grew louder as he walked further into the forest. He was unfazed by how sinister the forest was at that hour—he wanted to find the source of the sound. Like Fiera had promised, he had found the clearing, _and _the party. He imagined the clearing to be beautiful in the day time, a spot directly below the sky and surrounded by trees that danced when the breeze blew through them. That night though, it wasn't as lovely as it would have been if he had been alone with the scenery.

The bacchanal was in full swing; Dryads danced around a massive bonfire to the music, thin coronets of ivy on their heads; Animals, Dwarves, and Naiads danced with one another, a blur of colour and movement all around the circle of Dryads; Royals drank from red cups and swayed on the fringes of the party. He found himself searching for Caspian, or for Fiera, or even that girl Strawberry Fields. He was hopelessly alone, and he didn't feel completely up to socialising. He took a cup full of something that looked potable and braved the crowd. Surprisingly, none of the dancers bumped into him or made rude gestures. _Apparently being Peter Pevensie's brother is a good thing around here_, he thought to himself, crossing the threshold to get to the other side of the clearing. He was astonished to find that the sitar music was live, and that a sort of orchestra of sitars, drums, tambourines, and other related instruments were the ones producing the sound. He recognised most of the players to be Centaurs based on the all-black garb they were clad in. The sound filled his ears.

Out of nowhere, the music stopped. The drummer played two beats, stood, and announced in a booming voice, "The King of Narnia has arrived!" he looked around frantically and then realised that Caspian came out of the wood right in front of him, resplendent in his close-fitting violet shirt and black trousers. One of the Dryads broke away from the circle of dancers to run up to Caspian and place a gold plastic king's crown on his head. There was cheering, and the music continued. Caspian spotted him looking clueless and grinned; "Ed, you made it!" he blinked, unable to respond. "Come along, then!" Caspian stepped away from his entrance arch of the wood and linked a tanned arm through his. "Have you seen Fi?" asked Caspian, pouring him a red cup of something from the makeshift bar in one corner of the clearing. "No," he replied. Caspian gave him the cup.

"Er, what is this?" he asked, swilling the liquid around. It looked dark and suspicious—then again, he was only basing this on the minimal light provided by the moon and many strategically placed lit tea light candles. "Something blended by the Naiads—I have no idea what's in it, but I'm pretty sure it's something that we'll all be puking up tomorrow," Caspian responded, pouring himself a cup and drinking it, making a face. _Eh, what else can I do? _He drank it. The liquid went down his throat fast; it was like swallowing fire. "It takes like petrol," he said. "Petrol is fine," shrugged the so-called King of Narnia. They stood there, sipping awkwardly at their cups of the mystery beverage. "Caspian!" called a female voice that he knew didn't belong to Fiera, because it was far too low and soporific. It belonged to a girl with pale blond hair that fell in a shining sheet to her hips, whose powdery complexion was pulled taut over a rather bony face. The moon washed the girl in an odd light. "Lillian," Caspian said curtly. Somehow all the positivity drained from the King upon the girl's appearance.

There was silence, which he spent drinking the mystery beverage. "Well, Caspian? Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?" asked the girl Caspian had called Lillian, with a hand on her hip in a gesture that he imagined was defiance. "I don't have anything to say to you, Lillian; I think you said everything that needed to be mentioned when we broke up," Caspian responded levelly. "Do you _really_ think so, you inconsiderate twat?" Lillian said hotly. "Yes, I think so," there was an edge to Caspian's tone. "No, I don't think you have! I thought we'd agreed that we wouldn't see anyone else for three months after the breakup?" Lillian gesticulated wildly with her hands. "We didn't have an agreement. I let you go gently; you had a fit that was the opposite of gentle, and made a fuss in the middle of the corridor—like what you're doing right now, in the clearing," responded the King. "I just don't understand why we broke up, Cas—we had something special. We complemented each other. I'm the girl everyone wants to be, and you're the bloke that everyone wishes they were or they had. We were perfect," Lillian reached up to touch Caspian's face. "We were boring," at this Caspian removed Lillian's hand. "No, perfect isn't boring," Lillian persisted. "No, Lillian, we weren't perfect."

"What has that immature little twelfth year girl got that I haven't?" Lillian was back in hysterics. "Do you _really _want to know?" Caspian mimicked his ex-girlfriend's earlier tone. "I'd like to know, yes," commanded Lillian. "On second thought, never mind—this is just another manipulative tactic so you can make something up about how I made the _worst _decision in the history of mankind when I broke up with you," sighed Caspian. "Perhaps if you stopped overanalysing everything that I say, I could tell you whether or not it's a manipulative tactic!" Lillian retorted. "I'm going to be polite for a second; leave, Lillian," Caspian said through gritted teeth.

Lillian stood her ground, looking up at Caspian challengingly. "Go away, Lillian. I mean it," Caspian reiterated. "I'll leave on my own terms, unlike our breakup," Lillian stated matter-of-factly. Fiera's timing was impeccable, because she appeared by his side right about then. She had a crown of ivies on her head too, but hers was thicker than the other Dryads'. Perhaps he was drunk already and his vision was becoming less accurate, or perhaps Fiera really was wearing what looked like a forties lace gown that had been dyed light green. "What's going on?" Fiera murmured in his ear. "Caspian and his ex-girlfriend are having a row," he replied honestly. "We are not having a _row_, as you so eloquently put it, Mini Pevensie, Caspian and I are having a discussion," Lillian's eyes darted to him. "Discussions don't sound like that, Lilliandil," Fiera said clearly. "I have you know, the most educated of discussions can end up sounding a lot like this—then again, what would you know about educated discussions, kid?" Lillian snarled at Fiera. "I'm only a few months younger than you, actually, and I take part in educated discussions frequently, so I know that this isn't one," Fiera retorted. "I take great offence at that statement, Lolita," the blonde's eyes widened. "I was merely stating fact," the brunette shrugged.

"That's enough, Fiera," Caspian said. "Tell your Lolita that she shouldn't mess with adults," Lillian scoffed, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and stomped away. "Are you alright?" asked Caspian, cupping Fiera's face in his hands and looking into her eyes. "I'm fine—Edmund, would you like some grass?" Fiera kissed one of Caspian's palms and turned to him. He nodded. Fiera rooted in a pocket that he hadn't spotted on her dress and produced a tightly rolled joint and a lighter. He put the spliff to his lips and lit up. "Thanks," he said as he exhaled. "You're welcome, Ed," smiled the brunette. He chased it with some of the mystery beverage, and found that it wasn't as bad when he had a drag off the spliff first. "Your Majesty," Fiera curtsied to her boyfriend, rising slowly and planting a kiss on Caspian's neck. "Hush, Fi, not in front of the baby," Caspian grinned into Fiera's hair, ruffling his hair absently. "I'm not a baby," he muttered to no one in particular. "It's OK, baby," Fiera pressed her lips to his cheekbone. His skin burned where her lips had touched it. "Did I tell you, newly-minted King Edmund, that Caspian is a beautiful, lyrical lover?" Fiera drawled. "Er, no," heat rushed to his cheeks, "I didn't plan to know, either." Caspian laughed, "See, I told you, didn't I; nothing in front of the baby."

He sighed; "For the last time, I'm not a baby."

—**TBC****—**


	5. Chapter 5

**I thought I'd follow that update up quickly, so here it is. The same disclaimers apply.**

* * *

When his eyes opened the following morning, the sunlight did not help his throbbing headache. He blinked a couple of times and took a moment to check on his surroundings. He was in his room, on the bed, atop the covers. He didn't have a shirt on, but his jeans were still there. Whoever brought him up had the sense to remove his boots, at least. He sat up, which proved to be a bad decision, because his head began to spin. A minute after the awful head-spinning, he swung his legs off the bed, and shoved his feet into his bedroom slippers. Much to his surprise and anxious panic, he was not alone in his room—there was a girl in his bedroom.

Her hair was red, and spread out onto a new rug in rays from her head. He had to blink a couple of times to recognise her, and it was that girl with the funny name, Strawberry Fields.

She was clad in a white dress that probably reached her ankles if she was standing. The dress had no straps, and the skirt looked like it was made of layers upon layers of white netting. The ring of emeralds on her finger sparkled. She didn't have a coronet of ivies near her head. He turned to his bed, and true enough, the coronet hung from one of the bed frame's posts. He blinked, attempting to recall the events of the night before. He blinked again—his effort was unsuccessful. His laptop was on the desk, and he got an idea. He skirted past Strawberry and made his way over. He turned on the laptop and waited for clarity to come by way of proof.

Someone had made a video and saved it on the desktop. He cringed in advance, anticipating highly embarrassing antics on his part.

**-:-|-:-**

"_My name is Edmund Pevensie and this is Strawberry Fields."_

_In the video, he still has that eggplant-coloured shirt on. He hates that shirt. He hates that colour. He knows that the only reason he wore it the night before was for him to be identified. He doesn't like purple. He blinks, focussing on the task at hand. _

"_Hi, I'm Strawberry." He has one arm slung over Strawberry's bare shoulders in the video, and he is dazedly looking into the camera lens. He decides that he was drunk while they took the video—or that he was high._

"_She's cute and fifteen." Strawberry's laugh crackles over the speakers. He doesn't really think much of anything as he watches, but then the next thing he does in the video makes him sick._

"_You are fifteen going on sixteen—oh fuck; I dunno what comes after that." Video-Strawberry laughs again._

"_He's sweet and sixteen." His Video-Self makes a face at the camera and then grins at Video-Strawberry. Video-Strawberry lowers her lashes, and then out of nowhere, they kiss. He cringes. They are kissing in the video; actually, after a minute or two, it turns into snogging. It isn't a very pretty sight, two teenagers going at each other like their faces are made of food and they have each been starved to the brink of death. He shudders._

_His Video-Self has the sense to stop recording, and the video is over._

**-:-|-:-**

He shut off the laptop and absently prepared a change of clothes and clean underwear, the only thing on his mind being aspirin. He ignored the redhead on the unfamiliar rug in his bedroom the entire time, taking his towel and stripping off in the bathroom to ready for a shower. He took the clean vestments into the bathroom, closing the lid on the toilet and placing the pile of clothes atop the cover. He shut the door. He took a bath, scrubbing everywhere. When he finished, he dried himself off as best as he could (considering the space), and dressed. He left his soiled things hanging on the shower curtain rail and left the bathroom in total silence.

He knelt near Strawberry's head and tapped her on the shoulder. Strawberry blinked in response to the light, saw him outlined in the light, and shot up. He jumped back fast enough that he wasn't hit by her head. "Good morning," he managed to say. "What happened?" Strawberry put a hand to her mouth, so this sentence was muffled. "There was a party after the Conference meeting, the Dryads hosted it in the forest, and we went. We didn't go together, but I have no idea how you got here," he responded, standing to find sunglasses. He found a pair that had been Peter's and slipped the aviators on. "Oh, erm, OK—I'll go back to my room, thank you for letting me stay here, I suppose," Strawberry stood and left. He nodded in acknowledgment of her thanks, which weren't even warranted considering the fact that he didn't actually let her stay the night.

He left the room, with the intention of going to the cafeteria. He needed to eat. He made his way down the stairs and walked to the main building, where the cafeteria was on the basement floor. The door in the ground that led into the cafeteria was thrown wide open, and the familiar buzz of conversation drifted out.  
He descended the steps, and the buzz grew louder in his ears. _What a way to help the hangover, Edmund Pevensie. You know _just _what to do to help yourself heal._

"Edmund," called a girl's voice that he recognised to be Fiera's. Caspian's girlfriend walked over to him, dressed in an overlong black T-shirt, black tights, and those Jack Purcell sneakers he saw on all those American girls. "Where's Caspian?" he asked, which sounded soft even to his own ears. "He went off-campus to get fresh things for this hangover cure that his aunt taught him in Spain," responded Fiera, equally as quietly. "We aren't by any chance going to get any of that, are we?" he asked, involuntarily making a face. He didn't know what Caspian could have possibly learned in Spain to cure a hangover, but he had an inkling, even in his headache-induced stupor, that it wouldn't taste very good. "He's making it _especially _for you, Edmund darling," a smile lazily spread across Fiera's face, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek. He stiffened. "What?" asked Fiera. She had probably sensed his sudden discomfort. "Nothing," he replied.

Fiera's brow was creased when she asked him, "Am I making you uncomfortable, Edmund?" he shook his head, which proved to be a horrible thing to do, because it made his headache worse. "Do you want anything to eat? I was here to get breakfast, why don't you come with me?" Fiera put a gentle hand on his forearm. He sighed, "OK." Fiera linked an arm through his and stroked the back of his hand as she spoke, "I think a fruit breakfast will do you good. From what I've heard about you, I think it would do more than just sate your hunger." Fiera led him around the cafeteria, looking at the wares the kiosks lining the walls were peddling. The tail end of his sentence made him narrow his eyes at her. "What have you heard about me?" he asked. "I did some asking around," Fiera began, "and I heard that you were quite something at your old school in Finchley." He shrugged, "Somebody had to fill the position at some point, so I did."

"Don't be full of it," Fiera playfully hit him on the arm, "I must admit, your brother was _far _too nice for my tastes." He raised a brow at her, "I bet you fancied him because of that whole High King Peter thing." Fiera shook her head, "He was a ponce." He blinked, "What made you say that?" Fiera led him to the fruit kiosk and asked the concessionaire for two apples before responding in a matter-of-fact manner, "He and Caspian had so much chemistry I thought I would have to bottle it up and sell it to bickering married couples." He laughed, "Peter isn't gay." Fiera granted him a look that seemed to say, _do you expect me to believe you?_

He shrugged, and Fiera broke into a smile. "Let's have breakfast, Ed."

—**TBC**—


End file.
